Molly Muffet looked at the cooling, overcooked eggs and scrappy ham in the cafeteria and chose a bowl of oatmeal. She pulled a stool to the table, sat, and reached for the pitcher of cream – which, alas, was curdled.

A thin, lanky man, all arms and legs, pulled up a stool beside her. “You look familiar,” he said. “But surely I would remember such a pretty girl. Have we met?”

Molly said nothing.

“I’m here almost every day,” he went on. “Do you come here often?”

“Not any more,” Molly replied, plunking her bowl on the table as she stalked out.

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